


ain't we walking down the same street together on the very same day?

by ballantine



Series: Graceland [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Prequel, Shame: Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 05:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: “There has to be a better way,” said Eleanor Guthrie.(Pre-series AU: John Silver arrives in Nassau ten years early and meetsan off-balance James Flint adjusting to a life of piracymore resistance than he expected in befriending his new captain.





	ain't we walking down the same street together on the very same day?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Gumboots" by Paul Simon. Finding quotes to serve as titles will likely only get harder from here on out, but goddamnit a girl's gotta stick to her fuckin shtick.

“There has to be a better way,” said Miranda. Her smallest, sharpest darning needle was poised beside his ear. Her hand did not waver, but nor did it move to get on with the job.

“There isn't,” said James, a little less patient on the third repetition.

“It only seems like rather a permanent change. Do you really think this is going to make a difference in how the men see you?” She studied his earlobe closely, as if looking for some reason to pronounce it unfit to hold a piercing.

“Sailors have been piercing their ears since Ancient Greece. I'm not doing this to stand out, but to blend in.”

She frowned, unimpressed. “If it's such a time-honored tradition, why have you not done it before now?”

He didn't shift in the chair, but he couldn't help but stiffen his spine and raise his chin a little. He narrowed his eyes at a ceiling beam across the room and said, “It went out of vogue for officers by my time.”

The Service used to be more honest with itself back in the days of Drake. It understood there was a bit of monster in every man who chose the life. Since then it's been a long, slow decline into mediocrity and parlor politics. James used to think he'd come along too late, that he'd missed the real glory days.

He'd nearly gotten an earring when he was fifteen. His ship was stopped over in Port Royal, and another young midshipman and he had ventured into the port side district on shore leave, newly flush with unfamiliar wages and a finer quality of liquor than either were accustomed to possessing. Cantrell had underwent the piercing with a reddened face screwed up and bracing for the puncture. When it came time for James's turn in the chair, he'd demurred and Cantrell had reacted as if gravely betrayed. The senior officers weren't pleased with the winking bit of gold in his ear; Cantrell kept his head turned whenever he could while on deck to hide the hole until it healed close. He stayed angry with James for almost a month.

The memory didn't improve his temper, which had already been short due to the weather and growing restlessness of his crew. If they didn't get out hunting soon, he was going to have real trouble on his hands.

“Miranda, would you _please_ just – ”

“You're not using one of my earrings,” she said, and stabbed the needle in decisively.

Thus thwarted by a miserly domestic situation, he was forced to stop by the marketplace on his way into Nassau and look for something others thought a pirate captain might wear. It was a difficult task only because of the insistent voice in the back of his head that kept repeating _lord fuck, I do not care, I do not _care_._

“I know the account's been scarce as of late,” said a now-familiar voice. “But surely you haven't resorted to pawning jewelry.”

Suppressing a sigh, he glanced over and met the expected smiling eyes of John Silver.

“Do you just loiter about public spaces waiting for someone to bother?” he demanded.

Silver folded his arms and leaned against the stall support. “Unlike you, I have no secret residence in the countryside. Do you know how little there is to do in this place if one hasn't an appetite for the brothel or bottle?”

“Have you tried reading a book?”

Silver looked around the marketplace with exaggerated care. “Point me to the island's bookseller.”

James shouldn't allow a crew member to talk to him with that tone, but for some reason his response was only to reach into his coat and pull out the slim volume he'd taken from the cottage – a late Dryden play Miranda had pronounced mildly diverting. He proffered it to a startled Silver and said gruffly, “Here.” And then: “Now go away.”

Silver grabbed the book before it could be retracted and spent several moments studying it. To James's immense irritation, he absently followed him from stall to stall after, as if he hadn't heard the second part of the directive. Ten minutes passed like this, and then it seemed too much of a bother to force the point.

“That one,” James said, pointing down at a small gold stud on the last table. He was fed up and ready to be done with the task. He had places to be. “Second from the left.”

“A fine choice,” the stall keeper said, his earlier eagerness to sell him a gaudy bauble settling for relief that James hadn't walked away with something pewter. “Very discreet. Befitting a man of style and taste.”

James met his eyes. “You tell anyone you sold this to me, and I'll be back with my pistol.”

A merchant in any other corner of the world might have quaked; this man didn't bat an eye. “Naturally, sir.”

James turned away from the stall and, after giving a quick glance around, fitted the earring into place. His earlobe gave a slight twinge but otherwise he felt no different. He thought of Midshipman Cantrell again and wondered what he'd think if he knew James had finally done it.

“It looks good. Natural,” said Silver. He was looking up from the book – had to have been ten pages in, at least – and squinting through the sunlight at James with a faint smile. “Befitting a man of style and taste.”

James started; he'd forgotten he had company. He ignored the words, because to court reassurance would be weak and to acknowledge the compliment would be uncomfortable in some manner he didn't want to study more closely.

James had somewhere to be, but not quite yet. He said, “You say you are at odd ends currently?”

Silver hesitated, looking torn. “Well, I was – but I am due to meet a friend soon.”

Of course Silver had made friends on the island. He was the type to make fast friends anywhere. Hiding his fidgeting hands in a firm clasp behind his back, James straightened up and gave him a stiff nod before walking away.

He had somewhere to be anyway.

* * *

“There has to be a better way,” said Eleanor Guthrie.

Flint paused with his glass half-raised to his mouth. His eyes flicked from the sour-faced girl to the window she was currently glaring out. Nothing on the sun-drenched street outside immediately proposed itself as the source of her vexation, so he was forced to conclude she was indeed addressing him. He took a drink and said, “Sorry?” because he was not going to ask outright.

“Yes, it is, isn't it,” she said, turning to face him. She braced her hands on the bar counter and looked him right in the eye, as frank and bold as a boy who hadn't learned to be cowed when talking to dangerous men. “What do you see when you walk down the street?”

He considered both the question and the one posing it. He looked out the window again. “Fear,” he decided upon.

This was not the answer she was expecting. He saw a flash of curiosity cross her face before she filed it away for later study, and her previous line of thought reasserted itself. He asked, “What do you see?” and raised his empty glass meaningfully.

She lifted the jug and informed him as she poured: “Shit.”

He paused. “Right.”

“It's everywhere,” she continued, relentless. “The alleys, the main thoroughfare. Not two feet from the entryway of the butcher shop. You understand the problem.”

“I live in the country,” he said. “But one does notice a certain... fragrance peculiar to Nassau upon approaching the town from downwind.”

This was not the conversation he'd hoped to engage in when he decided to stop into the tavern.

He heard talk about Eleanor Guthrie, of course: the rich girl who kept her hair in a loose boyish queue and occasionally wore trousers when she tended bar. Between her status, her gawky height, and the sprinkling of spots decorating her chin and forehead, she had been the subject of a fair number of jokes on the street. But the jokes were predictable, and those who made them terribly short-sighted.

Flint didn't know what the girl's personal motivations were, but he understood frustrated power. And he had lingered in worse places based on shakier intuition.

“You're one of the new captains,” she said, changing the subject in a more promising direction.

“Flint,” he said and offered his hand for a shake, as he would if talking to another man. She hid her startlement almost quickly enough and took his hand; she mistimed her firm squeeze. He pretended not to notice.

Once she had her hand back, she quickly folded her arms in and leaned against the counter. She recited, “You took over the Walrus. Your last hunt was west of Saint Martin – the Glory, bound for Carolina. Your haul was worth 200 pieces of eight.”

He hid his surprise with more skill than she had. “You are well-informed on your father's business. Do you make a habit of cataloging all the ships' hauls?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “My father's business is my business. And I intend to see it grow strong.” She hesitated and then added, “Just like I intend to see Nassau grow strong.”

It was an absurdly bold statement, made even more bewildering by being uttered in the clear bell tone of a young woman's voice. But while her presentation and manners were clearly still subject to all the flux and uncertainty of teenage bravado, on this topic she was perfectly assured. Flint met her eyes and found himself almost believing her.

“And do you have an idea for how you will accomplish this?” he asked.

“I do. Same as I have an idea for fixing the shit problem. Both start with a skilled captain who doesn't feel beholden to my father.” She raised her eyebrows. “Interested?”

If this alliance panned out, he might be hailed as a shrewd captain with vision; if it failed, he and his crew would be the laughingstock of the island. But Flint had built and lost a reputation before, and nothing under man's purview had the power to make him care about such things again.

He nudged his empty glass forward once more.

* * *

“There has to be a better way,” said Mr. Gates, upon hearing a full accounting of Flint's plan.

Flint had waited until they cast off before sharing it; he wasn't about to let his quartermaster abort the hunt over a minor detail like the provenance of their lead.

“The best intelligence always comes from the least expected sources,” he said. He studied the sea chart, even though he already laid in their course with Rossi. It was better than looking at Gates as he processed the events of the day.

“A discontented, spoiled _girl_ – ”

“An ear inside the Guthrie operation,” he hedged.

Gates narrowed his eyes. “And she just let slip this lead out of the sweet generosity of her heart, did she?”

Flint studied the sea chart more closely. “If the lead pans out, she gets a cut.”

“A what?”

“A cut.”

“A cut. I see.” Gates's tone was ominously calm. “And obviously this was _in place_ of the usual Guthrie percentage. Because all alterations to prize shares need to be approved by the crew, or in a pinch, the quartermaster on their behalf. Obviously. You know this.” He ducked his head, seeking Flint's gaze. He stressed, “_Obviously_.”

“The cut's in addition to,” said Flint. He didn't let himself blink when he saw the stirrings of outrage in Gates's eyes. “The bargain doesn't hold if her father knew we scooped Captain Lawrence for the prize. And in any case, he's still the fence so – his cut remains the same as before.”

A breath became a pause became a silence.

He gritted his teeth. “If the haul is as large as reported, the crew won't even notice the division. They'll still have the heaviest pockets in Nassau.” For about a week, he thought, until they spent it all. “Would you honestly prefer I didn't leap at this opportunity? You've seen what it's been like the past month. The crew needs this.”

He knew he was clear of further resistance when Gates started shaking his head slowly. It hadn't taken long to learn the other man's tells.

“You better hope this doesn't get out among the men,” he warned. “Eleanor Guthrie is not a popular figure in Nassau. They say she damn near castrated a man from Teach's crew last year.”

Knowing Teach's crew, it was probably deserved. “I fail to see how that pertains to whether she can provide decent leads. And I'll have you thrown overboard if you enter this cabin without warning again,” he said sharply over Gates's shoulder.

Gates spun around, startled. He looked more confused than suspicious at the sight of the cook, who had crept inside at some unknown point during their conversation.

Silver raised his hands, placating. “I heard nothing, I'll say nothing.”

Gates snorted and cast a look back at Flint. “Never met a cook who didn't make second living on gossip.”

“This one better not,” Flint said, looking hard at Silver. “Or he'll learn he doesn't need a tongue to man the mess.”

Silver blanched and went still, which was about what Flint expected by now. The man reacted with credible terror to every threat thrown at him, but he rarely made himself scarce in the aftermath. Flint still hadn't determined if he was lying about being a coward, or merely took some perverse pleasure from the risk. Or maybe, he thought with quiet dismay, he didn't believe Flint capable of meting out the promised punishment.

“Why'd you even come in here?” Gates asked, genuinely puzzled.

Silver darted Flint a glance, as if expecting him to come up with a likely excuse that wasn't_ popped by for a quick afternoon fuck._

Flint stared blandly back. His hands pressed down on the sea charts, bleaching at the fingertips.

“I had a question about the placement of the food stores,” is what Silver came up with. “Someone left the dairy goat untied, and it got into the grain.”

Gates muttered a curse and heaved up off his seat. He said, “I'll take care of it, Captain. Lord knows you have enough to consider for the prize tomorrow.”

This last was said with a speaking look, which Flint didn't react to. Silver grimaced wildly at him as soon as the quartermaster's back was turned, and he didn't react to that either. Silver looked his age just then, and it disconcerted him.

“Idiot,” he said aloud once they'd gone. He was addressing himself.

* * *

A ship was always subdued on the night before expected battle. Navy, privateer, or pirate – that part was always the same. A brace of questions hung like becalmed sails over the ship. _Will our prey be where they're supposed to?_ On James's ship the answer was always _yes_ – a constant that felt like magic to the lesser sailors on board, but was only the pure clarity of math to anyone with a head for it. More pressing to the mind: _will we survive to see tomorrow's sunset_? No one had yet invented a calculation for that one.

In his cabin, the lanterns were doused low. The only light came from a solitary candle in a sconce on the wall above the pallet, enough for the two entwined figures to see each other and no more.

They rocked slowly together like lovers, but the pace was motivated by stealth rather than tenderness. All gasps were stifled, all curses bitten off. Eye contact was avoided and, if found, hastily abandoned.

Eventually Silver sighed and rolled off to the side. He swept a handful of dark hair off his face, stretched and cracked his neck. He glanced at James and said, “That's much better.”

James could not fathom what he meant by that. He remained in the position he finished, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He stared at the wooden boards of the ceiling and said nothing.

He wondered why he kept doing this. Nine times, now. He always meant to stop, but then the hour would come when he was tired or frustrated or angry, and it was easier to fall forward than turn away.

“You need to stop entering the cabin whenever you feel like it,” is what he eventually said. He sat up and reached for his shirt. He risked a glance over his shoulder before he put it on, and Silver offered him a smile, unbothered by the blunt words.

Nothing much bothered Silver, James noticed. It was as if he existed in a world different than the rest of them, one untouched by consequences or darkness. Maybe it was just his youth, or maybe he was not quite sane. Most days, his cavalier attitude set James's teeth on edge.

“If you know of a better way, I'd love to hear it,” said Silver.

“You should go,” he said, which was a rather decent stab at an aloof dismissal. Unfortunately, he followed it up with watching closely as the other man stood and slowly started pulling on his trousers. James was almost used to these conflicted impulses within him, the way part of him wanted to reach out and run a hand down the back of that solid thigh; how the rest of him wanted to snap and shove until this distracting pointless person left him alone.

Nine times he had given in to this base impulse to touch and possess. With Thomas there was love and intellect to excuse the indulgence. None of that existed here.

Silver smoothly laced up his trousers and did not seem to notice his preoccupation. But for some reason, he seemed to think the moment called for conversation.

“I think the crew is nervous about the fight tomorrow. I've been asked by four separate men for a second ration of rum, for luck.”

James's attention finally sharpened and focused on a relevant point. “And what did you say?” The last thing he needed was a crew too hungover to fight.

“I told them I was far more frightened of the captain than I was of them.” Silver threw him a bright grin, as if the idea was a joke to share between them – him being frightened of James.

James took a careful breath and let it out slowly. The men would wonder if they found the cook's dead body in his cabin at this hour of the watch.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “You're no fighter, so why a pirate ship?” _Why my ship?_

Silver hesitated, hand hovering over the loose bundle of his white shirt before he finally grabbed it and shrugged it over his head. His dark curls fell forward as he did up the front closure, hiding his expression as he said, “Why did you make the deal with the Guthrie girl for the lead?”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the connection. Perhaps Silver was trying to imply something; maybe he thought he had leverage, having overheard the earlier conversation with Mr. Gates. Feigning indifference, James replied, “Opportunity is opportunity, never mind the source.”

Silver nodded, as if that was an answer of some kind. And then, in a move too strange to be predicted and too quick to be dodged, he touched James's hair – knocked it back from where it fell over his forehead and tucked it behind his ear. As if James was some village girl he's just spent the afternoon tumbling.

He belatedly flinched back, but Silver was already turning towards the door. He didn't often stick around to survey the damage he'd done.

* * *

In a fight, all doubts about Flint's captaincy evaporated. The odd sidelong looks and muttering, the stiff attitudes – they transformed when confronted with his ability to draw blood. His ruthlessness was a key. And if he was a coward, he would claim it was all for show, for the men's benefit, but the truth was in battle he was _free_.

Here he could be at peace. He knew his place among others. There were no nagging questions about what he was doing or why or whether it was right. There was only the fight, and it took every ounce of his being – all of him, every part for once working in concert.

It was the only dance he'd ever been good at – pivot and shoot, drop the elbow and twist to bring up his sword, parry, run the sword through. Step over the body and look for another partner.

One man actually tried to flee from his path by climbing the rigging, and Flint had found himself laughing a little in disbelief before hauling him down by the leg, entangling him helplessly in the ropes before dispatching him through the gut. He took the puncture like a fat wineskin, and Flint had to close his eyes against the resultant outpouring of blood.

It was only when he heard the tell-tale clatter of weapons dropping that he realized the man had been the privateer captain, and all Flint could think was that the dead incompetent hadn't belonged on the sea.

It was incredible how many men dedicated their lives to things they weren't good at.

Between the exchange of cannons and the path he'd cut across the prize deck, he was filthy with sweat, blood, and sawdust. Men stepped out of his way as he made for his quartermaster; young Dooley tripped in his haste, as he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Flint's face long enough to look where he planted his feet.

Mr. Gates looked at him impassively, practiced at not letting his own gaze linger over the gore. “Soundly done, Captain.”

“How long until she's fit for travel, do you think?” he asked, indicating the privateer ship.

Gates looked faintly surprised at that; it was not often a pirate crew bothered with keeping a ship. An extra ship required monies and men to run. But he only said, “We disabled her rudder before boarding. I'll have to check with Mr. De Groot about seeing it repaired.” He glanced around at the waiting men and said, “In the meantime, we'll shift the stores to the Walrus, lighten the load in case we decide to tow her, yes?”

Flint nodded and made his only retreat of the day, to his cabin.

He knew it was a mistake. He should spend more time with the crew, be out among the men. He should be seen. But instinct drove him to the privacy of his cabin. In the Navy he'd always found it hard to look his fellow officers in the eye after a hard boarding battle.

His blood was up. His limbs were steady but his thoughts shaky with the excess energy from the fight. He must have bruises and cuts but he felt nothing but savage thrill of being one of those still standing. It wasn't decent. He was never decent, after. He thought if Miranda could see him – if Thomas had ever seen him – they would certainly draw back in horror, and they'd be right to. He wasn't fit company.

A question snuck into his mind. _The_ question. It had been demanding an answer ever since Miranda asked him to leave London and he said yes, ever since he stepped foot on the boat that took him across the harbor, every bobbing foot of water put between him and Thomas a renewed betrayal that lent the question more urgency. Every act he took as captain of the Walrus only underscored it.

_If you are what they call a monster, why didn't you save him?_

Killing was no obstacle, clearly. He'd thought it would feel different: running a man through under an illegal banner, but it felt just the same. It didn't matter whether he was wearing a uniform or carrying an officer's blade. All his vaunted respect for the law had been stripped and revealed as mere varnish. He could have found men in London, hired them, and liberated Thomas from Bedlam. That he didn't even _try_ was perhaps the most monstrous act he'd ever committed.

He paced the cabin, swift and jittery. Everything in his vision was sharp, heightened. He could still hear the screams in his ears from the fight, but he couldn't tell if they were very distant – still calling out aboard the other ship or echoes from the past receding by the second, becoming secondhand tales for his nighttime mind to retell.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

He spun around, head turning fractionally before his body to meet the intruder with a snarl.

Silver raised his hands, placating. “It's only me.”

He was braced in the doorway of the cabin, very pale and eyes wide as he took in Flint's appearance. Flint blinked and Silver had crossed the room to stand before him, his hands already performing a disorienting dance as he tugged and pulled at Flint's clothing.

“Not really in the mood,” said Flint, a poor approximation of dryness.

“What? Shut up, you're delirious,” Silver said rapidly.

Flint kept his silence then, but only because he was distracted. He might have been lying about his mood; Silver was clean and fresh, not a spot of blood on him. He was far from innocent, but that didn't mean he couldn't be despoiled.

“I don't understand, where are you hurt?” Silver sounded baffled. He ducked his head, continuing to pull at the wet folds of the shirt, but his hands were already slowing, realizing the truth seconds before his mind. He said haltingly, “This isn't your blood.”

“No,” he agreed.

The man's expression started to settle, transforming from panicked to disturbed before arriving with iron will upon blank. Flint saw it, understood it, and did not care.

Silver's hands stuttered in the air, and they both looked at them, at the blood that had come off Flint's clothing and was now liberally staining his fingertips. Silver seemed almost entranced by it, his pupils very small, his breathing fast and shallow. The last time Flint saw an expression like that, the man wearing it was clutching at a large piece of deck shrapnel embedded in his side. But Silver was uninjured.

He looked very young, just then.

“What did you think?” Flint asked him quietly over the peculiar roaring that had started up in his ears, combating the din of the fight. He stepped closer, invading the other man's space, forcing the words out. “You thought – what, that because I had manners or desired men I would be a soft mark? That I wasn't a threat?”

Silver's hands drifted down to his sides. He looked at Flint with ship-wrecked eyes and said nothing.

“I'm the fucking captain,” he said harshly, “of a fucking pirate ship. Grow up.”

These words seemed to reach Silver in a way nothing had in the weeks before; he finally believed Flint. He straightened up and put his head back, eyelids falling to half-mast to conceal any lingering emotion. He appeared to be barely breathing.

That was more like it, how it should be – Captain Flint was someone to be reckoned with, someone no one should approach without thinking twice. And if it made Flint feel a little sick to achieve this particular goal, that was surely only a sign he was on the right path.

He no longer understood his own motivations when he raised one of his bloodstained hands and heavily cupped the back of Silver's neck. He felt him shudder – a strange response, so similar in physicality to the shiver of pleasure the boy had given a scant twelve hours previous, but so very different in nature. Silver didn't press into the clasp like before, only stood stiff and unyielding. His eyes were on Flint's as he leaned in.

“Care for a fuck?” he inquired in a mockery of desire. As he spoke, he felt blood trickle thickly down the side of his face.

Silver broke. He wrenched himself bodily away and made for the door, almost stumbling in his haste to be away from Flint.

He watched him flee with what he was sure must be vicious satisfaction. The distant screams echoing in his ears ratcheted up, resolving into shrieks and blocking out the sound of the door closing hard and leaving him inside, alone.

* * *

Back in Nassau, a tall, proud figure awaited the arrival of Flint's skiff, ignoring the looks she garnered from the others standing around on the shore. Her hair shined boldly golden in the sunlight, and her gaze was bright and direct, blinded by the future.

Eleanor would get her cut of the prize, and in a couple weeks' time she would get her city privies built. But perhaps more valuable, she would get this: Captain Flint stepping off his boat and walking across the sand towards her, his gaze and gait making his destination unmistakable; his hand reaching out into the air between them, their bargain turned out for public consumption; a handshake between monster and girl, now revealed as equals.

Flint had found his better way.


End file.
